infinity is a blur
by little red after the wolf
Summary: AU Once upon a time, they had their own curse. — darling pan (tw: graphic tw: rape)


Part of her brain stretches to try and remember a time before she _ranranran_ for her life. It twists and reels and stretches and tries but she can't remember a time before. A small part of her knows she didn't just burst into existence but all she knows is running.

There was nothing before running and there will be nothing after.

Her legs have always known this burning and raw aching because if she stops _whatever_ she's running from might catch her.

Her lungs have always known this desperate struggle for air that just goes _onandonandonandon_ as she runs like hell.

Her heart has always known this constant pounding and swollen fear because there is nothing for her to hope for.

Her stomach has never known anything but the plaguing hunger begging her to stop and feast, her throat has never known anything but the thirst for water to just grace it for a second, her mind has never known anything but this fearful panic that knows nothing but running.

Better than she knows her face, her body, her name,—she only recognizes it when _he_ shouts it—she knows running.

She has run from _him_ for an eternity—or has it been days or weeks or months or years or eons?

It all blends together so fucking much.

* * *

Her lithe, skeletal figure, born from the never ending running and fear, writhes and twists and yanks and panics to get away from the thorns and branches that have snared her nightgown, as tired and ragged as her. She prays to fucking God that the pounding in her ears is just her swollen heart but every inch of her being knows it's _him._ Then _he_ laughs and she screeches because _ohfuckohfuck_ she knows_he'll skinhereatherkillher_ if _he_ catches her.

"Wendy! My little bird!" _He_ crows, sprinting towards her like an animal. _He_ laughs even harder when she tears her dress to bolt. "You can't run forever! I can smell your scent for _miles!_"

She almost wants to cry at the familiar ache of her legs and the sound of _his_ voice but she _runsandrunsandruns_ instead because there is no room for stopping.

She knows what _he'll_ do when _he_ catches her, _he_ wants to _fuckherripherapartdrinkherbloodkillherrebuildher_ from crushed bones and scarred flesh, no doubt to fuck her again. _He_ told her the only time she has ever stopped to appease her howling throat, _he'd_ wrapped his hands around it and told her. She will not be caught again and let her wings be clipped because she would take knowing only running over knowing _him_ any day.

But in her fear and racing mind, she falls. Her legs burn and ache and she can't get up, it hurts too much and she's crying and begging. "Please! Please!" She begs, her eyes finally raking over her pale, marred flesh. Never have her eyes taken in the sight of her bloodied feet and the dirt and mud that clings to them nor the scars and cuts and gashes upon her legs. It all burns more than she has ever realized and she _can'tgetupwhycan'tshegetupandrun?_ "Peter, please!"

Peter? She barely even knows her own name and here she is, for the first time in forever, calling him Peter and begging him not to savagely rip her apart.

He laughs again and she finally takes in the sight of him. His eyes are hellish and green, his face's features sharp and childish, his being toned and tall—she drinks it up and hates herself for it.

She knows he won't let her live any longer as she cries and begs for her life.

He's not even running now, instead tormenting her by _walking._

"Bae," she hoarsely sobs out a name she doesn't know but feels familiar, feels safe, "John, Michael." She doesn't know them, she can't remember the names but they feel so, so familiar and she swears for a second she sees a face that makes something in her smile but she doesn't know them.

(Henry has brought Emma to Storybrooke and the curse is beginning to weaken and she's finally remembering.)

The demon is in front of her, smirking happily with clear blood lust in his eyes. "Now, now, Birdie, why would you run from me so much?" He tsks, shaking his head, "you think I want to kill you, don't you?"

She nods her head, quietly, wishing him _farfaraway._ She _knows_ he wants to kill her, can hear it in his jagged breaths, feel it in her burning bones.

"Now, why would you think that, Wendybird?" He asks, something akin to hurt in his voice (but she's not stupid, it's fake, she can tell it's fake).

She doesn't respond. Instead, it hits her. There's a lake. She can run to there and scrub away the dirt and blood and mud and everything and escape him if she can just get up again.

"Let's wash you off first, Bird," he hisses into her ear, "no running away from me now."

* * *

He lowers her into the water with his hands on the swell of her hips. He scrubs at the dirt and blood caked into her skin, letting his hands roam her body. She sits, quietly, unwilling to move or fight back because _he'llkillherhe'llkillherhe'llkillher._

His hands stop at her breasts, the filth gone from her pale, pale flesh. "My, my, you've grown up," he sneers into her ear.

"It hurts to breathe," she whispers. It's not for him, she knows that he knows that.

"Then just stop breathing," he tells her, quietly. They're like that for a moment, quiet. But she can hear the silent screaming ripping her ear drums apart because there a million conversations held in those seconds. _WhoareyouwhoamI? Youmustknowyoumusttellme. Whydoyouhuntmewhydoyoulustme? Tellmetellmetellmetellme._

"I just want to go home, Peter," she murmurs. She doesn't know if she's ever had a home, those names are the closest she has ever come to one, but she doesn't care anymore, she just doesn't want this. (But she can feel heat all over her body and she hates the way his touch has excited her.)

"Home? Run away with me, come with me, Wendy, you'll never have to worry about anything again. You'll have to grow up if you go home, but if you come with me, we can be young forever," he whispers, his chin resting on her bare shoulder.

Her eyes look ahead, wandering and searching for something, anything that means escape.

He pulls her out of the water, not caring for her response. He tugs his tunic off and her eyes are glued to his body. She wants to not feel like this, to not want to drink him up the way he wants to eat her alive. He's a fucking animal and she refuses to be one too.

But then he's on top of her, his eyes filled with something cloudy and hungry. He's a selfish, greedy boy, she knows this by now. And he eats up every curve of her body and her face's soft features with his eyes, she can see he wants to leave nothing for her.

And then he thrusts inside of her, knowing she's already wet with want. She does not move. She refuses the desire to cling to him and blinks back the tears of pain. It hurts, of course it hurts, he's so big and it's her first time.

Frustrated with her rebellion, he picks up pace, thrusting harder and faster, slamming her frail body into the grass—she hasn't seen grass in so long but how can she realize it now?—and smashing his hips into hers.

She gives in, whimpering with something she doesn't know—all she had known was the running, after all. Her hands cling to his back and she wraps her legs around him, screaming out.

"Peter! Please!" She can't tell if she wants him to stop or give her more and she's too scared to want to know now.

He can feel her walls squeezing tighter around his cock so he bucks harder, deeper, and then she cries out in release. But he's not yet satisfied. Growling, he slams her back into the grass _againandagainandagain_ until he can feel himself cumming inside her.

"Get dressed," he commands. Wendy lays there, still and breathless. She cannot remember a time before this memory existed and she fears there will not be a time after this memory dies. It will exist for _eonsandeonsandeons_ like the running has. He throws her nightgown to her, already dressed once more.

Sitting up, with dried tears on her cheeks, she pulls the dress over her and lays down once more.

It occurs to her that she still has not even had her first kiss and some sick laugh half forms in her throat before it ceases.

The boy straddles her once more, curiosity in his eyes. "What's this?" He whispers, eyes on the corner of her mouth.

She doesn't know. _Hiddenkisshiddenkisshiddenkissit'sforyourhusbandpleaseremember_._Butaren'tIyourhusbandpleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes_.

There is an aching below her ribs and the little voice whispers things she cannot hear over the pounding of her heartbeat.

He presses his mouth to hers and she can feel her swollen heart aching in her stomach and she's sure that if he had a heart he would feel this aching too.

It's uncharacteristically gentle and soft and that fucking kills her as he pulls away, his eyes no longer stormed by blood lust and hate and desire.

"This is belongs to me and always will," he whispers. She nods, shyly.

"I believe . . ." She breathes out, "it's yours, forever, Peter Pan." _Shebelievesshebelievesshebelieves_.

* * *

_reviews are love, give wendy and peter some. also, yes, those were allusions to the 2003 version, i'm terribly sorry for ruining your childhood._

_"any curse can be broken with true love's kiss."_

_A/N: Firstly, I would like to clarify that this piece is not meant to be romanticizing rape. It's meant to show the conflict of the curse vs. who they really are as well as the idea that you can be in love with someone and they can hurt you, badly, even rape you. It's meant to further explore the idea that you can forgive your rapist, you can continue to love them, especially since, at the time, these two are under the curse that completely distorts who they really are. That's a really hard point to get across in fiction and, while rape is not exactly black and white, this is a kind of grayed situation since she changes her mind once it happens, it definitely does not start off okay and her regrets afterwards are meant to be the upbringing she has reminding her that premarital sex is supposedly a sin. Thank you, that is all._


End file.
